Cherry Marbles. Shukie Nkosana

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      Chapter 1

      1

      An unexpected case of inflamed vaginal thrush and the Sunday paper brought the two together in a Parktown pharmacy. Langa had burst into the pharmacy, fresh from church, the ailment in question behind the manic and illegal parking of her Volkswagen Beetle on the pavement. She cursed under her breath despite the holy anointing she had just received as she made for what she felt was refuge.

      The only customer in the pharmacy was a black middle-aged man with an unkempt sort of handsomeness about him. He was holding the Sunday Star and chatting away heartily with the pharmacist, an old white man. They both briefly looked up at her, the dishevelled one’s eyes lingering on Langa a little longer before resuming their conversation. Despite the frumpy sweater he wore, his caramel complexion and stubbly beard brought out the best of his hazel eyes.

      Langa sauntered to the feminine hygiene section of the pharmacy, the gruelling itch inside her imploring relief with every step she took. In front the two men went on speaking animatedly in a language she thought sounded familiar, erupting into frequent bouts of laughter. After fervently considering the products on the shelves, Langa’s annoyance got the better of her. Gnashing her teeth, she stormed to the front counter, trying to keep the rubbing of her legs against each other to a minimum.

      “What do I have to do to get service around here?” she yelled, mainly at the unkempt man who now had tucked the paper under his armpit. Langa knew she sounded crazy and both men’s faces confirmed the fact. But the thrush was driving her insane enough not to pay attention to anything else.

      “I’m sorry, sisi; how can I help you?” the pharmacist ventured after a puzzled moment, contritely lowering the hands he’d been waving in emphasis of whatever it was they had been discussing. Langa could feel that the scruffy one’s eyes were dancing with delight as he looked at her.

      “Are you patronising me?” she demanded from the pharmacist. She hated it when white people talked down to her by calling her sisi. Her fiancé, Richard, knew that only too well.

      “I’m sorry, madam,” the pharmacist tried again, his old face turning crimson, the folds of skin gathering around his mouth in a superior grin reserved for the occasional difficult member of the fairer sex.

      The black man turned towards Langa and looked into her eyes. “I apologise; we got a little carried away.”

      “Do you have a female pharmacist I could talk to?” she countered, impatiently running her fingers through her dreadlocks, avoiding eye contact with both men. The black man’s lips twitched and the pharmacist mastered all the willpower he possessed to remain professional.

      “She doesn’t come in on a Sunday,” he said, “but I’m sure I can help.”

      Langa could tell he thought she was a little off the rails.

      “Well,” she began, “I . . .” She gave the black man standing beside her an intolerant look before snapping, “Do you mind? I’d like to have a private word with the pharmacist.”

      “I’m sorry,” the man said, taken aback. “Thank you,” he went on, addressing the pharmacist before they cordially shook hands. He turned to leave after a friendly nod in Langa’s direction.

      A few minutes later, she stepped out of the pharmacy armed with two tubes of cream the pharmacist had assured her would help soothe the discomfort. He had the same silly grin on his face when she insisted on taking two tubes even after he’d explained to her that one would suffice.

      Langa found the unkempt man standing outside in the sunshine, his paper and smile still intact, seemingly waiting for her.

      “You can go back inside now and continue your conversation,” she told him as she fumbled in her handbag for her car keys and then abruptly gave him a suspicious look. The thought that he could very well rob her right there and then had suddenly struck.

      “I want to apologise for disregarding your feelings in there. I just got a little excited about the fact that a white man could actually speak Ndebele.” His voice was smooth. Langa noticed his long eyelashes, the wavy dark hair that outlined the contours of his face and his defined jaws. She found it hard to believe he was Ndebele; weren’t they supposed to be dark and have a chauvinistic intolerance of women? He was the best-looking man she had ever seen and when he spoke she found herself drawn to him, not wanting him to stop.

      “I’m not really bothered, and now if you don’t mind, you’re standing in my way – and where the hell are my keys?” Langa needed to get home quickly; her discomfort was getting unbearable.

      Furiously yanking the keys out of her handbag, she dropped the tubes of cream. They both scrambled for them but he got to the tubes first.

      “Give me those!” Langa shouted, snatching them out of his hands. She was sure he’d read the labels. They were extremely bold and left nothing to the imagination.

      The man stepped out of her way, looking a little fearful of the harm she could possibly do to him.

      “I’ll have you know that I’m engaged,” she said as she opened her car, uncertain why she felt she had to justify herself. Then Langa flashed her diamond ring at him before uttering, “I also recently found Jesus!”

      Slamming her car door, she revved the engine with more force than necessary, too ashamed to cast another glance his way, too exasperated to turn down Lira’s thunderous voice that blurted out the speakers as she sped down Jan Smuts towards home.

      A light rain fell like sheets of delicate glass, shattering as soon as the drops touched the ground by the time Langa got to her New York-style apartment on Quinn Street in Newtown. She ignored the muddle of paperwork on her kitchen table and the fact that it was still partially set with place mats and her best wine glasses, reminiscent of the romantic dinner she had served Richard a few nights ago when he was in town. The same dinner during which he had struggled to keep his eyes open.

      Slipping her buxom body out of her Stoned Cherrie ruffle dress, Langa piled her dreadlocks high on her head before running the shower. She tried not to think of how she and her fiancé had already begun to drift apart months before their nuptials as she stood under the shower, a warm burst of much-needed life.

      She’d met Richard at an SABC conference, one of the first events her company, Buthelezi Events, had coordinated. He was the gorgeous dark-haired white man who helped her find an air-conditioning company when the one she’d initially contracted let her down at the last minute. Richard’s cousin Pieter ran a small air-conditioning business in Joburg and instantly arrived at the venue, saving her fairly new company at the time the disgrace it would have faced. Richard, who’d overheard the distraught Langa on the phone after the original air conditioners had bailed out on her, promised he could help in exchange for her phone number. She happily obliged, especially when the beer-bellied Pieter appeared with two trucks in tow.

      Langa had met Richard for coffee the next day and enjoyed his easy company. Now it was two years later, and the two were getting married. The past year had been hectic for both of them, between running Buthelezi Events and the time Richard spent out of the country filming wildlife documentaries for the SABC.

      Despite the fact that South Africa was called a rainbow nation, both their families initially had reservations about their union. Gerda Muller, Richard’s mother, a conservative Afrikaner woman who СКАЧАТЬ